


A Golden Bell Hung in My Heart

by cattyk8



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesty Week, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Clark Kent, Crack, Crackporn, Depowered Clark Kent, Fae & Fairies, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Humor, I am so sorry, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Or Maybe a Little Plot, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Superbat Big Bang 2019, Those last 2 tags are related, Top Bruce Wayne, Unicorns, Unicorns made them do it, Virgin Clark Kent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 07:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattyk8/pseuds/cattyk8
Summary: After finding themselves transported to Faerie, Superman and Batman must navigate an enchanted forest in order to get themselves back to their own plane of existence.Which would be easy enough—they’re not the World’s Finest for no reason, after all—if not for the fact that they’ve been cornered by a unicorn attracted by Superman’s virginity. Of course, who better to pop the Man of Steel’s cherry than Gotham’s Dark Knight?





	A Golden Bell Hung in My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> “Oh, I’m just gonna write a 5K one-shot smutfic,” I said, before starting this. But noooo, apparently not. My first ever SuperBat smutfic (first ever M/M smutfic, for that matter!) decided it was going to be A Thing, and 9,000 words later, here we are. Oh sweet baby jesus, I regret so many things, and yet I had so much fun writing this even as I mourn the death of the innocent me who thought writing fade-to-black scenes was racy work. 
> 
> Now, for some business. This fic was written as part of Amnesty Week for the [SuperBat Big Bang 2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/superbatbigbang2019). There are so many awesome fics in the collection it is a fricking privilege just to be able to be a small part of it.
> 
> Thank you to the awesome people at the ManManBangBang Discord server, but especially my very own Bad Idea Bear, dusty, who was like "why don't you make art for your fic" even though I am not an artist. To the folks on the server, thank you for opening my eyes to kinks beyond my imagination and for introducing me to terms like “vore” and “xenobiology kink” and the concept of sentient, detached Kryptonian penises. 
> 
> Thank you to my fellow sprinters, and frequent hosts dusty, Dino, xiao, and SDS. Biggest and most heartfelt thanks (and genuflection) to my awesome cheerleader and beta reader [Holdt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holdt/), whose fic (and smut!) superpowers are way more awesome than anything I could hope to achieve, so click on the username to check them out, guys.

* * *

_“Your name is a golden bell hung in my heart. I would break my body to pieces to call you once by your name.”_

_― Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn_

* * *

“Fuck.” Bruce sat himself down on a rock to one side of the cave he was currently stranded in and tugged off the cowl. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_, fuck.”

“Language.” Even if he hadn’t known exactly _who_ was stuck in the cave with him, even if he didn’t recognize the voice, he would have identified the speaker from that word alone. Not to mention the warm tones of slight disapproval that could only belong to Superman.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll swear if I want to, Clark. We’re stuck in a _fucking_ cave. Literally underhill in Underhill in _fucking_ Faerie. Besieged by a _fucking_ unicorn. Because my _fucking_ teammate who somehow lost all his _fucking_ powers the moment we got zapped into Faerie decided it might be a _fucking_ good idea to pat a _fucking_ unicorn on the head. _Fuck_.”

“It just came trotting up to me! And it was exactly the way a unicorn was supposed to look like—you saw it!”

He had, actually. It had been beyond beautiful, its color not white like was so often shone in art but of a pale iridescence with the mirrorlike luster of the finest pearls. Its horn gleamed, even in the dark woods, or perhaps especially in the dark woods.

Then Clark stepped forward, his hand outstretched as if to stroke its mane; its eyes had darted from Clark to Bruce to Clark again. And its eyes had darkened from a clear aquamarine to the dark blood red of garnets, its coat darkening to something like hematite, still with those rainbowed edges if you looked at it the right way, but so much duskier than before. Its horn had suddenly gleamed onyx, then those red eyes had glowed menacingly and it had snorted smoke out of its nostrils before it had started to paw the ground and aim its horn their way.

Clark had frozen in place at the sight. Bruce had had to yell at him to get him to dive away in time when the unicorn had rushed him. Then had come a mad dash through the dark woods even Bruce’s best efforts at rationalization could not have labeled a strategic retreat. They’d run around like—well, if they’d had feathers, he was pretty sure they would’ve clucked and squawked their way through the ancient eldritch forest as they smashed through the underbrush.

Eventually, Bruce had spotted this cave and directed Clark to it. With a lot of huffing and puffing—because go figure, Faerie magic trumped Kryptonian powers, and the forest was fucking _saturated_ in it—they’d blockaded the narrow entrance as best they could. Now the unicorn was huffing and puffing outside and Bruce was tempted to yell at it that he wasn’t letting it in, not by the hair of his chinny-chin-chin.

God fucking damn it.

As if to emphasize his point, the creature outside let out an enraged neigh that sounded like the cries of a thousand mothers of murdered children. Bruce grimaced and fought the urge to shudder at the sound.

“Just be grateful I didn’t drop the hamper,” he grumbled after counting to twenty so he would stop cursing at his companion.

And didn’t that just add insult to injury, the goddamn Batman having to traipse through an enchanted forest with a motherfucking _hamper_ in hand. What was next? Would he have the _skip_ his way along the forest trails?

“Oh. Right. The, uh, hamper. The Goody Granny hamper? What does that do again? And the horn?”

He sighed. “The Hamper of Gwyddno Garanhir is said to possess the power to multiply food, so place food in it and it will multiply a hundred fold.”

“Right.” Clark nodded. “So, like Jesus and the fish.”

“Indeed. The Horn of Brân Galed is said to contain whatever drink its bearer might wish for.”

“Huh. And how did you get this around the Faerie food taboo that meant you wouldn’t let me eat any of the food at the banquet that nice Faerie queen went through all that trouble to arrange for us?”

He suppressed a groan. Hadn’t Clark listened at all? “The magic is intent-based. We could not eat Fae food and return to our world. However the Sidhe queen assured us that as long as we are under geas she placed on us to harm no creature of Faerie, the magical parameters set on the artifacts would work for us as long as we kept to human items.”

That had taken a lot of fancy footwork, diplomatically speaking. Bruce was grateful for several lucky breaks in this whole situation.

The first was that, upon learning that Morgan le Fay was an actual Fae and had decided to snap Batman to another plane of existence so he couldn’t interfere with her plans yet again, they had found themselves in the middle of a Seelie Court. From his admittedly less-than-complete recall of Celtic mythology, he knew the Seelie or Light Fae, while easy to insult and prone to mischief, were likely to deal with one fairly and return kindness for kindness. He didn’t want to think of what might have happened had they found themselves in Unseelie, or Dark Fae, territory.

The second thing he was grateful for was that it had been Superman who’d tried to reach over and save him. Wonder Woman might have done a good job diplomatically, but Diana was a goddess and Bruce thought they were in enough of a pickle that they didn’t need to add a “who’s the fairest of them all” problem to the mix if the Sidhe queen had shown any of the Fae’s notorious jealousy. J’onn might have been an asset as well, or not; Clark at least had some rudimentary knowledge of Fae taboos like not thanking anyone and, when reminded, not eating any food. Certainly Arthur, Barry, and Hal—especially Hal—would have been guaranteed to offend the court straight away. Or trapped them in Faerie for a thousand years.

So really, Superman, despite his regrettable vulnerability to magic (and what was Faerie but pure magic?), was the best possible person to have been stranded here with, if he’d had to be stranded here with anyone at all. It would have been much better if Batman alone had been transported.

The third happy circumstance he’d learned of after clearing his head and making an assessment of the situation was the fact that Morgan le Fay was perhaps as hated a figure among the Daoine Sídhe as she was with the Justice League.

From what he had learned from the Faerie queen, she was hated by both the Seelie and Unseelie courts, having betrayed both over the course of her long life. And so it was with the notion of “an enemy of my enemy is my friend” that Batman had managed to secure the Fae’s assistance with finding to a door that would lead them back to their earthly plane, or Overhill, as the Fae called it.

He’d cemented their goodwill by handing over something shiny—in this case, the good-sized chunk of Kryptonite he’d kept in a lead-lined pocket of his utility belt—and they’d lent them the hamper and the horn to ensure he and Clark wouldn’t starve or die of thirst on their journey.

“There’s nothing in here,” Clark whined, if the most powerful hero on Earth could be said to whine, poking at the hamper and interrupting Bruce’s train of thought. “I’m hungry.”

Batman was reminded of Diana’s frequent proclamations of “I work with children,” and he suddenly found himself commiserating. He sighed, and reached into one of the bigger pouches at the back of his utility belt, detaching it from the belt by hitting a button and pushing then siding the compartment in a move only members of the Bat Family knew to do.

He held out the pouch—canister, really—and for a moment thought about just putting it into the hamper. Then he thought better of it, concerned that the stainless steel lining that protected the food from impact might interfere with the magic in the artifact, given Fae reactions to Cold Iron. He carefully put the pouch’s contents into the hamper before closing the lid.

“What was in there?” Clark asked.

“MRE.”

“Like those godawful packets the folks at the International Space Station have to eat?” Yes, the Man of Steel was definitely whining. Bruce found himself missing his actual children, all of a sudden. All of whom would be doing something infinitely more productive in this situation than staring mournfully at a magic picnic basket. Even the youngest. Especially his youngest.

“Yes,” he clipped out.

“But Bruuuuuuuce! Those things taste like cardboard in glue sauce!”

Never let it be said that heat vision or super strength are the Man of Steel’s greatest weapons. Clearly his super puppy dog eyes were far more formidable. Batman relented. “Those MREs were not prepared by Alfred. Also, there are cookies.”

“Cookies! Alfred’s cookies?” Puppy dog eyes transformed into heart eyes, and Bruce was forced to consider that the old adage “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” might have some merit after all when applied to men outside the Flash family.

“Yes.”

“Oooh, can we check it now?”

Bruce inclined his head, and Clark eagerly opened the lid, gasping in delight to see the hamper was now full, immediately stuffing two cookies into his mouth, making his cheeks puff out like a chipmunk. It would be unbearably cute, if Batman would allow himself to find things, or people, cute.

“Have some of the MREs, at least,” he chided. “I’m reasonably sure this batch is a chicken and sun-dried tomato pesto pasta.”

“That sounds pretty good, actually,” Superman said. Or at least he interpreted this from the sounds Superman made as the Man of Steel attempted to speak with his mouth full.

Bruce extracted the portable cutlery set from his utility belt, opening them up so they became full-sized utensils. Clark swallowed down his mouthful of cookies and reached for them. “Wow, those utility belts _do_ come in handy, don’t they?”

“Hnn.”

Superman snorted. “And you call _me_ a boy scout.”

Bruce waved the comment away with a single gesture that cut through the air, as if he were swatting a fly. “It’s less the adherence to policy as to the ideal.”

“Whatever you say, B. Whatever you say.” Clark extracted one of the MRE packs, opened it up, took a tentative bite of its contents, and apparently found it good because he then proceeded to chow down while Bruce got up to inspect their hopefully temporary shelter. “So,” he said after Bruce wandered back, having found the cave was a dead end, “what’s the plan?”

“Due to the geas placed on us, we cannot defend ourselves against the—”

“Demon unicorn?”

“Just so. Our best hope is that it finds something to distract itself from the mouth of the cave, perhaps even leaving after it loses interest, allowing us to sneak out.”

“I guess. Here, have a bite.” Bruce found a forkful of pasta shoved before his mouth, and while he was flustered at the idea of Clark feeding him, he recognized that they only had one set of cutlery and thus decided to accept the bite rather than argue over it. “Good, huh?”

“It was made by Alfred.” Of course it would be good. As if his butler would ever prepare food for the family that was anything short of delicious. “I am reviewing what I know of unicorn lore.”

“Hmm.”

Funny, he would have expected the other man to leap in with all sorts of excited information about the creatures, considering his reaction to seeing firebirds dancing through the air, mermaids sunning themselves on a rocky shore, and gryphons nesting in a rocky crack above the trail earlier in their journey. But now the Man of Steel was focused on the food he was eating.

Huh. Perhaps Clark really had been hungry. It was fortunate that the hamper was so abundant in its multiplication of food.

Bruce unclipped the Horn of Brân Galed from his utility belt, thought of the cool water of a Himalayan spring, and tipped the horn to his lips. The clear, cool liquid numbed his lips just a bit and soothed his parched throat.

Once he’d drunk his fill, he decided to enumerate what he knew in case Clark had anything to add. “Here’s what I’ve got. The unicorn is a mythic creature often thought to appear as a horse or a large goat with a single spiraling horn similar to that of a narwhal protruding from its forehead.” He paused. “I think we can agree it is more horse than goat.”

“Yeah. Except maybe for the beard on its chin.”

“It is generally used to symbolize grace and purity, and its horn is rumored to purify toxins and poisons and even heal sickness, for which reason false alicorn powder used to be sold as a form of cure-all by hack physicians. They were notoriously tamed by young women, particularly in legends dating back to the medieval era, but I imagine that was some sort of bullshit macho symbolism.”

“Oh. Um.” Bruce was fascinated to find the Man of Steel completely flustered and red in the face.”

He scowled. “Are you all right? Maybe you shouldn’t eat that too quickly.”

Clark stared down at the MRE packet in his hand—his third, by Bruce’s count. It seemed one of the things Clark had retained when he lost his powers was his super appetite. “Uh, no! I mean, it’s not that. It’s…”

Bruce trained his gaze on his teammate. “What.”

“Um, I don’t know if this is even, uh, relevant—”

He sighed. “Just spit it out Clark. Not like we’re going anywhere. You never know when information may be relevant to the situation at hand.”

Clark put the MRE packet down and covered his face with both hands. “You’re not allowed to laugh. Or… or say anything.”

Bruce hoped Superman could feel what his kids had dubbed the BatGlare through his fingers. “Clark,” he said flatly.

“Okay, okay. It’s just, that, um. You know. The legends. About—about unicorns. About taming them.”

“Yes. I have already stated—”

“They weren’t young women,” Clark finally snapped, lifting his head to glare at Bruce. Then he covered his face again. “I mean, gosh, they probably were. But it’s not because they were young, or women.”

Bruce was becoming genuinely concerned about his teammate now. “Clark,” he said gently, his voice pitched to something similar to the tones he used on young children or victims. “What is it?”

Superman cleared his throat and slowly, slowly, pulled his hands away from his face so he could meet Batman’s—Bruce’s—gaze. “It’s not that they were young, or that they were women,” he said again, finally, voice resigned. “It’s that they were virgins.”

“I see,” Bruce said, frowning a little as he tried to understand what his friend was telling him. “I am not entirely sure where you are going with this.”

Clark let out a slightly hysterical giggle. “God, of course you don’t.” He scrubbed his face with his hand and sighed. “Bruce, hunting parties used virgins to lure unicorns out in the open. Now a unicorn has chased us into this cave. Because—” He swallowed audibly.

Bruce was still completely baffled by what Clark was trying to say. It was a discomfiting feeling, confusion. “Because—?”

“Because I am!”

His frown deepened, in annoyance now. “You’re what, exactly? I’m a detective, not a mind-reader, Clark!”

“No,” the Man of Steel muttered. “You’re just the most singularly obtuse person I’ve met, for a man who’s supposed to possess the sharpest intellect mankind has to offer.”

Bruce smirked. “Well, don’t tell Luthor that.”

“Har, har. Who would have ever known how funny you are,” Clark deadpanned.

“I still don’t—”

“I’m a virgin, okay?” Superman finally snapped. “And I’m pretty sure the reason that unicorn is out there and won’t leave is because I’m in here.”

“Okay,” Batman said nodding. “That makes sense. So we’ll—”

His thoughts stuttered.

Stopped.

“Uh,” he said intelligently.

Superman crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow.

“Say _what_ now?”

* * *

It hadn’t occurred to Clark earlier, when the unicorn approached. He decided not even Bruce could fault him for not thinking of it as they were running for their lives through a forest that looked like something out of a Tim Burton movie. When Bruce yelled at him to slip into the cave, he’d squeezed in and spent a good several minutes just catching his breath, and the only thing he’d been thinking was that maybe Bruce had a point about him training for fitness under red sun radiation, because he was completely winded while Bruce worked on moving boulders to block their entryway.

In the end, they could see that the unicorn was still trying to get in, but they’d managed to get the opening narrow enough that it hadn’t a hope of it without doing some major damage to the rock wall of the cave. Thank Christ. Or, he supposed, thank Batman.

So it wasn’t until he was digging into his third pack of Alfred’s surprisingly tasty MRE, when Bruce had mentioned reviewing what he knew about unicorns, that it occurred to him to wonder why exactly the animal had decided to approach him in the first place. And everything inside of him had frozen.

Because of course this was exactly the kind of thing that would happen to Clark, that he would be stuck in a cave, besieged by a unicorn, with his exceptionally gorgeous, staggeringly intelligent, heartbreakingly compassionate, incontrovertibly brilliant, undeniably urbane, notoriously well-bedded and emotionally obtuse teammate.

The one who, were he not too well-bred to notch his bedpost, probably would’ve had to replace his bed every year due to structural damage. The one who had villains and heroes alike crushing on him on a regular basis. The one whose civilian persona had graced the cover of GQ too many times to count and had been named Sexiest Man Alive twice and made the _shorter _shortlist for it every year running since he’d arrived on scene from his mysterious travels around the world.

The one who had no idea that Clark had been in love with him for over a decade now.

And Clark would have to admit that he was responsible for the mess they were in.

Because unicorns were symbols of innocence and purity.

And the one major myth about them that Clark could recall was that they were attracted to virgins.

And Clark…

Was a virgin.

Of course, he was also Superman. And Clark had decided to brazen it out. So he’d crossed his arms defensively and arched an eyebrow while Bruce stared at him, evidently gobsmacked, if his stuttering was any clue. And of course it was; the man was a genius several times over. He didn’t just find himself at a loss for words.

Except apparently when his best friend confessed to being abstinent-since-birth.

Unless having a little solo pickle tickle counted.

Which obviously it didn’t, because _unicorn_.

If shucking the corn had dealt with the problem of virginity, _obviously_ they wouldn’t have been in this situation.

But here they were. Clark had fessed up. And Bruce was—

“Say _what_ now?”

“I. Am. A. Virgin.” Clark bit out every word.

“Are you sure?” God, he didn’t know why he’d spent so much time waxing poetic over Bruce’s intelligence to Lois, Diana, Barry, and just about anyone who would listen. In that instant, Clark changed his mind completely. Batman was a _moron_.

“Yes, Bruce,” he seethed, “I am absolutely, 100% sure I have never had sex in my life.”

“I mean—”

“So help me god, Bruce, if you ask me if I might have done it in my sleep or developed some sort of intercourse-related amnesia, powers or no powers, I am going to _hit_ you.”

“I wasn’t gonna ask that!” Bruce said hastily, raising up both gauntleted hands like Clark had told him he was under arrest instead of confessed to never having turned in his v-card. “I just—I—what about Lois?”

“We dated for like three weeks!” And, Clark thought sourly, Lois had called him out on the number of times Bruce Wayne had come up in conversation when they were supposed to be focusing on each other.

“Lana Lang?”

“We were teenagers!”

“Exactly!”

“We were too young to do that!”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “You know they call them ‘horny teenagers’ for a reason. Having raised a few myself, I can attest to the fact that it is as likely a time as any to lose one’s virginity.”

“Well, when did _you_—no, wait never mind. I never want to know! And also, your kids weren’t dealing with the emergence of hitherto-unmanifested super powers at the time!”

“That’s a point, I suppose.” Oh, great. Now Bruce was amused. “Lori Lemaris?”

“We went on like two dates!”

“Lex Luthor? Didn’t you tell me he spent some time in Smallville when you were in high school? Didn’t you save his life or something?”

“I would _never_!”

“Save his life?”

“I would never fuck Luthor!”

“Language,” Batman reminded him mildly. “Also, have you noticed your strange obsession with people possessing the initials L. L.? Is it perhaps a subconscious reaction to your being from the House of El? Because—"

“Fuck you, Bruce!”

“All right.”

“I—what?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him. “All right,” he said, voice casual, agreeable. Like Clark had offered him coffee, or a mint, or something.

“_What_?”

One gauntleted thumb jerked in the direction of the cave’s entrance, where the unicorn could be heard snorting and occasionally neighing that horrible, horrible neigh it had. “I accept your assessment of our situation. Having done so the only thing to do about our current problem is to eliminate the cause.”

Oh no.

Oh no.

Clark stared at his friend. His crush. The fucking love of his life. His heart felt like it was going to explode out of his chest. Was he breathing? He wasn’t sure he was breathing. He still needed to breathe, right?

Bruce, the little shit, stared calmly back. Smirking all the while.

Oh _no_.

Clark opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Somehow, Bruce’s smirk got _smirkier_.

“Did you just say what I think you s—”

Obviously, Bruce had. And this was obvious because Bruce’s lips were now plastered to his own, and his tongue was now in Clark’s mouth, and Clark was sure his internal organs were seizing or maybe liquefying in their own juices, and there was no doubt that his brain had exploded, and all this was kind of—

Nice.

And hot.

And perfect.

And suddenly Clark was kissing Bruce back.

Tongues tangled until they broke apart, both breathless, as if they’d stolen the air out of each other’s bodies while they kissed, and still left themselves starving for one another. Clark barely registered the roughness of the rock behind his back, not when one of Bruce’s hands was in his hair, the other roving his side all the way down to his hip in a way that made Clark’s insides just a little bit wobbly—and when had Bruce taken off his gauntlets?

“We should talk about this,” he gasped, even as he wondered what he would say. I love you? Too soon. I’ve dreamt of this moment for over a decade? Too heavy. I’ve jacked my beanstalk to your latest GQ spread? Too pervy.

“Or we could… not,” Bruce said, then claimed his mouth again.

“Bruce,” Clark said between kisses. “We should—”

“Later, Clark,” he said, punctuating each word with a meeting of lips or a stroke of his hands, or both. He tugged at the neck of Clark’s uniform. “How do you get this off?”

Bruce tugged his cape off, and with a sweep of the arm laid it on the ground. When Clark had his powers, Bruce couldn’t hope to budge him without his helping out, but he unclasped his own cape and laid it down alongside Bruce’s. But he resisted Bruce’s urging to lie down.

“Bruce,” he said, pulling back from the other man, though it seemed his very molecules resisted the separation. “I want to know this isn’t just because of—"

“Relevant points.” Clark would never be sure what exactly Bruce did, but one moment he was half-seated, half-leaning on a rock, and the next he was flat on his back on top of both their capes—and forever after he would never be able to get that idea of their overlapping capes out of his mind—with Bruce standing above him, unbuckling his utility belt.

“Number one.” The belt slid off his hips then hit the cave floor with a _hiss-thunk!_ “This isn’t happening just because some horse is sniffing at you. But we’ll use it as a convenient excuse for something that’s been a long time coming.”

“Uh.” Clark’s thoughts scrambled.

“Number two.” A quick series of movements had the armored sections of the suit detaching, leaving Bruce in an undersuit that molded to his body and left little to the imagination when it came to how _fit_ this man was. “This isn’t a one-time deal. Not for me. If it isn’t for you, we will definitely be having a discussion about cover stories and protocols when we get Overhill.”

Was he saying—? Bruce must have read the expression on his face because he scowled and snapped, “To clarify: yes, I am speaking of the possibility of a relationship. If that is what you want.”

“Y—“ Clark coughed, swallowed, licked suddenly parched lips. “Yes. That’s what I want,” he croaked.

Bruce studied his face a moment longer, then nodded once.

“Number three.” Balancing on one foot, and then the other, Bruce removed his boots with far more grace than a man of his size wearing armored boots had any right to exhibit. “We ease our families and the team into this. No outing us before we’ve both agreed on it.”

Clark laughed at that one. “You know you’ve trained up all your kids to be the world’s best detectives after you, right?”

Bruce smirked. “Finding out before we come clean will prove an excellent training exercise for them.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course you would turn this into a learning opportunity.”

“All things in life are a learning opportunity,” Batman intoned.

Clark wished he had something to throw at him. Bruce clearly read the intent on his face, because his lips twitched.

“Number four.” He reached behind him. Clark knew there was a zipper there, having assisted Alfred in getting the suit off Bruce to tend to injuries too many times to count. The ambient noise—his own heavy breathing, the sound of the unicorn outside the cave, the strange whispers that pervaded the forest they were in, even from within the cave—drowned out the hum of the zipper, and Clark had a moment to miss his enhanced hearing. He watched, eyes heavy, mind drunk with the idea that he could _have_ Bruce, as the man tugged off his shirt, revealing pale skin over which a lifetime serving justice had drawn a map of scars. Clark’s fingers itched with the longing to traverse every one. “Our relationship will not be allowed to interfere with our duties as Batman and Superman. You need to understand that the Mission comes first.”

He sobered at that. “I do, Bruce.”

“You also don’t get to put me first just because you get to call me your boyfriend. Following our debriefing, we are going to be having a conversation about your jumping in when Morgan le Fay cast that spell. You are in no way or form immune to magic.”

“What!” Clark yelped. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Bruce bared his teeth. It wasn’t a smile. “Try me.”

Clark threw an arm over his eyes. “Talk about a buzzkill.”

“You’re the one who wanted to talk. I was ready to fuck.”

Truth be told, there was something about the way Bruce said _fuck_ that really just did it for Clark. The way his teeth scraped over his bottom lip in something that was almost, but not quite, a snarl for that _F_, that release of air and flesh for the _U_, the curl of his tongue for that explosive _CK_.

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him. “I see the buzzkill didn’t last.”

“Please tell me there’s a number five.”

He shook his head. “Your turn. I want that suit off. Now.”

Clark hit specific points on the shield on his chest in a prearranged sequence, a gesture that had Bruce hiking an eyebrow and saying, “Don’t tell me. You’ve decided sex with me is a religious experience, because if that’s the case, boy, you better start praying.”

He smirked, enjoying the way interest and outright avarice bled into Bruce’s eyes as his suit deconstructed itself in the honeycomb patterns Clark always associated with Kryptonian tech. The end result was a badge-like device about the size of his palm and himself fully dressed in his reporter attire, sans glasses. He was pretty sure Bruce would be asking for a sample of the tech when they got back Overhill.

Bruce snorted when Clark palmed the badge. “It looks like one of those fidget spinners Tim and Steph are always playing with.”

Clark wrinkled his nose at him. “You’re just jealous.”

“A little bit. Doesn’t mean it isn’t true, though. Still, it’s an improvement over the red undies, and now I know why your suits are always so wrinkled.”

He groaned, lying back as Bruce knelt over to undo his tie. “My mom made that suit, I’ll have you know.”

“Mmm. And I have nothing but the utmost respect for your mother’s heart, her gumption, her wisdom, and her cooking.” Bruce tossed the tie who-knew-where and pushed his suit jacket off before attacking the buttons on Clark’s shirt. “But she also let you go your whole life wearing plaid and didn’t once suggest you reassess your fashion choices.”

“What are you saying?” Clark groaned as Bruce pulled his shirt open, bent, and latched his mouth to a nipple.

“I’m saying the best thing about that suit was the way it burned off entirely the moment you flew into a burning building.”

“You—?” He’d noticed that? All those years ago? Clark drew in a steadying breath. “Okay. Point to you. But please stop talking about my mom when you’ve got your mouth on me.”

“All right.” And then Bruce’s mouth and his hands—god, his hands—were everywhere. Clark’s hands fisted at his side, aching from the urge to grab onto this brilliant, damaged man who’d just offered himself up to Clark, body and heart and soul. Never mind Justice League heroics; that had been the bravest fucking thing Clark had ever seen a person do in a long, long time. The weight of it, the joy of it, threatened to take Clark’s breath away.

Or maybe that was the fact that Bruce’s battle-roughened hand wrapped around his cock. When had he gotten Clark’s fly open and pushed down his boxers?

Clark’s fingers dug grooves into his palms as Bruce had slid down his body and pulled fabric away just enough to let Clark’s cock spring free. “You can touch, grab, scratch if you want to,” he said, breath warm on the tip of him, already weeping precum.

Or at least that’s what Clark thought he said. He couldn’t be sure because in the next moment, Bruce’s mouth had engulfed the head of his penis, tongue curling in a way that left Clark’s thoughts skittering like marbles over a flat surface. Then his tongue flattened and he all but swallowed the rest of Clark’s erection down, lips meeting his own fist at the base of Clark’s cock.

Bruce’s mouth was warm and wet, and he was doing something with this tongue that thrummed along the underside of Clark’s length, and Clark had to shove his fist against his mouth and bite down to stop himself from begging, or whining, or maybe outright wailing. But then Bruce’s mouth drew upward, and with it, he reached one hand up to grasp at Clark’s wrist. He released the head of Clark’s penis with an audible pop that sounded positively obscene, mouth glistening with saliva and swollen from kisses and more.

“You can hold on to me,” he said again. “No powers here, so you don’t have to hold back. Whatever you do, I can take it.”

The thought of letting go both thrilled him and scared him to death. “I can’t, Bruce—”

The look in Bruce’s eyes was warm, chiding, and familiar. Dear god, how could Clark have missed how much Bruce _cared_ for all these years? “Clark,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. There never would be.

“Then trust me when I say you can’t break me. Not here, not now. You can’t even hurt me, not in a way I won’t enjoy.”

“Bruce—”

“Trust me, Clark.”

And he did.

Bruce must have seen it in his face, because he nodded again, and turned his attention south once more. He grasped the waistband of Clark’s pants and boxers. “Lift up,” he said, and Clark did. Bruce drew down Clark’s clothes, taking his shoes and socks off with the rest of it, leaving him completely nude against the fabric of their capes.

Shyly, Clark moved to cover himself.

“Don’t,” Bruce breathed. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

And Clark found himself blushing—he was sure his whole body was red from the way he felt overheated from head to toe.

“You’re one to talk,” he managed to say, but Bruce waved that away with one hand as he stroked Clark’s length with the other. “You keep that up and I’m not going to last.”

Bruce smiled, and it was something predatory, sharklike. “That’s all right,” he said amiably. “I don’t need you to.”

“Wha—?"

But there were no more words because his dick was once more in the pulsing heat of Bruce’s mouth and Bruce’s fist. He placed one hand on Bruce’s shoulder, the other in his hair. Bruce raised one hand to squeeze Clark’s on his head and _hummed_ right before he hollowed out his cheeks and _sucked_. And Clark’s hand clenched into a fist in Bruce’s hair, a keening noise erupting from his lips as his vision went spotty.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph in a paddleboat!”

Bruce coughed up a laugh with Clark’s cock still down his throat. Then another. Then he came up for air and just rested his forehead against Clark’s hip and wheezed into the top of his thighs.

“That’s some mouth on you, boy scout,” he gasped after a long moment of laughing in which Clark’s penis probably would’ve softened if Bruce hadn’t been pumping his hand up and down his length in ever shorter, ever faster strokes, keeping him from focusing on his embarrassment or Bruce’s laughter or, well, anything, really.

“Bruce,” Clark whined, and he didn’t even care about how desperate he sounded.

“I’ve got you, Clark,” Bruce said, amusement still rich in his voice, but there was a roughness there too. One hand continued to jack him off, and then Clark’s eyes nearly crossed when he felt Bruce mouthing at his balls, tonguing at his sac.

“Bruuuuuuuuuce.” And damned if he wasn’t outright mewling now. Bruce responded by taking Clark’s cock into his mouth, then plunging deeper, deeper, until the tip notched past his throat. And then he _swallowed._

Had Clark been in any way prepared, he would like to have thought later that he would have warned the other man as he came. As it was, he gave out a hoarse cry, grabbed a fistful of Bruce’s hair, and arched upward helplessly, hips thrusting as the world whited out and he came down Bruce’s throat.

An eternity later, he collapsed back down onto their capes, legs like spaghetti noodles and face surely as red as the proverbial cherry Bruce had just popped—orally, at least.

“Think that did it?” his lover asked, pressing kisses to the crease at Clark’s hip.

Mustering as much interest as he could, because damned if he hadn’t forgotten all about that fucking unicorn, Clark strained his hearing to try and catch the sounds from outside the cave. He was pretty sure he could hear the soft stamping of cloven hooves upon the forest floor, but then again, that could just be the pounding of his heart. Even so…

“I don’t think so,” he said, with as much sobriety as he could. “I think—” He gasped as Bruce nipped his hip. “I think you’re going to have to… to do the other thing.”

“The other thing?” Bruce teased. “You know, Clark, if you can’t even say it—”

Clark grabbed Bruce’s hair and forced him to look up the length of his body to meet his eyes. “Shut up and fuck me, Mr. Wayne.”

* * *

Bruce grinned at the profanity, drinking in the sight of Clark hazy-eyed and all but luminescent in the afterglow, even in the dim light of the cave. “At your service, Mr. Kent,” he said, and found himself laughing delightedly when Clark gave him a singularly unimpressed look.

He reached over for his utility belt, pulled out a bottle of lube and a condom.

“Are you kidding me?” Bruce looked over to see Clark propped up on one elbow, eyeing the items in his hand incredulously. “Why do you carry _lube_ around in your utility belt?”

Bruce bit down on a response that would’ve been the sort of eyebrow waggling comment typical of Brucie Wayne. Instead he went with the truth. “Air vents,” he said shortly, with a slight grimace.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“Air vents,” he said succinctly. “Specifically, the Robins’ tendency to climb into them and get stuck there.”

Clark was goggling at him. He didn’t blame him. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

The Man of Steel was grinning now. “Who?”

Bruce shrugged.

“Dick, right? It had to be Dick. Or maybe Tim.”

Bruce’s mouth twisted. “All of them,” he finally admitted.

Ebony brows arched skyward. “All of them? All your kids have gotten stuck in air vents at one time or another?”

He sighed. “All the Robins. Cass and Barbara would never. Tim even fell asleep in one and forgot to radio in for help until he woke up.”

Clark was outright guffawing at this point. “Your kids, B,” he gasped out. “I swear to god.”

“Just wait til you’re living at the Manor,” Bruce grumbled. “You’ll see what I have to live with.”

Suddenly Clark was beaming at him, and Jesus were Superman’s teeth blindingly white, or what? The guy would make a fortune doing toothpaste commercials, it was ridiculous. Then Bruce froze for a second, realizing what he’d just said. Then he relaxed. It wasn’t like he hadn’t already laid all his cards on the table, when it came to Clark.

He smoothed his hair down, gathered what dregs of his dignity lay around him. “Can we get back to fucking now?”

Fortunately, his new boyfriend was amenable. “Let’s do it.”

“There’s that go-getter attitude,” Bruce drawled. But he stood and peeled off the compression pants of his undersuit along with his boxer briefs, leaving himself as nude in the cool cave air as Clark was.

Clark, whose eyes had rounded and were focused on Bruce’s dick.

In what appeared to be horrified fascination.

He knelt down. “Clark,” he said, receiving no response. He tried again. “Clark, look at me.”

Blue eyes dragged themselves away from Bruce’s groin to meet his gaze.

“You don’t have to bottom,” Bruce told him. “I can—”

Soft lips cut off whatever he was going to say next. “I want it,” Clark said hoarsely. “I want that cock—your cock—in me.”

“Clark—”

“I can’t hurt you, right? Not here, not now.” There was something _yearning_ in Clark’s gaze. “Not with my powers gone.”

“No,” Bruce assured him, then took a moment to assess what the other man was asking. His conclusions had his eyebrows spiking upward. “Are you suggesting that under normal circumstances, I would be risking castration via super sphincter?”

Clark flushes. “Uh, the thought had occurred to me?” he offered weakly.

Bruce shook his head. “A problem for another time. For now, Mr. Kent, it’ll be easier on you the first time if you turn over.”

Sweetly, obediently, Clark got on his hands and knees. And wasn’t that a sight to behold, Superman nude and kneeling before him on a bed of their overlapping capes. The visual sent a jolt of arousal straight to Bruce’s cock.

Jesus Christ, this man would be the fucking death of him.

There was a tenseness in his lover’s spine that spoke to his inexperience. “Relax, Clark,” Bruce murmured, all but crooned. He bent down to press kisses all along the base of that spine, then moved upward, hands roving the other man’s body like he could ever hope to sculpt anything more beautiful than this.

Clark seemed to melt at his touch, and Bruce whispered compliments into his skin, delighting at the flush his praise elicited. He palmed one round buttock, pale and round as the moon, and whispered compliments with one breath, then obscenities in the next, a combination that had Clark nearly squirming, cock hardening again as if he hadn’t just spent his load down Bruce’s throat a short while ago.

He slicked his fingers up with lube and eased one into Clark’s puckered hole, pleased when a faint whine erupted from the man’s throat. He pumped in and out, easing the way for himself, before adding a second finger, and then a third. By the time he added a fourth, Clark was a quivering mess.

“Please,” he was mewling. “Please, Bruce.”

“Please, what, Clark?” Mischief had him chasing the huskiness out of his voice, and he modulated it for mild blandness, channeling his inner maiden aunt. If he even had a maiden aunt.

“Please fuck me!” Clark cried. Bruce saw his lover’s hands curling, as if he could dig them into the rock under the fabric of their capes.

He smiled. “Of course, Clark,” he said. “Of course.”

He tore the condom wrapper with his mouth, rolled the rubber on one-handed before applying a generous amount of lube to the length of his cock. He continued to plunge his fingers into Clark’s hole, smiling when Clark pushed his hips back against his hand impatiently.

Slowly, carefully, he withdrew his fingers, then lined his cock up to Clark’s opening. He slid the tip of himself in, and ran a comforting hand up and then down Clark’s back as a breath exploded from him. “Okay there, Smallville?”

“Get in me already,” Clark growled, turning his head to glare at him from over his shoulder.

Bruce bit back a smile. “As you command, Superman,” he said.

And slowly, inexorably, thrust home. Clark keened, and Bruce bit back a moan, stilling to allow the other man to adjust to the intrusion.

Clark was heat and clenching tightness and everything Bruce had ever dared to want in one large, sun-warmed package.

Clark was a gift Bruce vowed to treasure for always.

“Bruce. Move, damn it!”

He grinned then, chest bursting with joy even as his cheeks flushed with want, and he withdrew most of the way until just the tip of him was inside Clark before thrusting back in.

He kept his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, then sped up at the other man’s urging until eventually his hands had given up their traversing over Clark’s skin to clutch at his hips as he all but jackhammered into his best friend, his boyfriend, his lover.

All too soon, he felt his balls tightening, and he reached down to stroke Clark’s cock in counter rhythm to the pounding of his hips, and he was rewarded when Clark threw his head back and _screamed_ as he came all over Bruce’s hand and their capes, arms collapsing under him and driving Bruce even deeper into his ass.

From there it only took one, two, three more thrusts, and then Bruce was coming himself, coming harder than he could remember coming in his life, forcing him to collapse on top of Clark as he all but blacked out.

Long minutes later, Bruce pulled out of Clark and dealt with the condom, tying it off and sealing it into an evidence bag for disposal once they got Overhill.

Clark chuckled lazily. “That fucking unicorn better be gone.”

Bruce cocked his head and listened for a moment. “It seems to have quieted down, at least.”

“Do we have to get up now? I’m pretty sure my bones have turned to rubber.”

He reached over and grabbed the Horn of Brân Galed, handed it over to Clark. “Think human beverages—I’d suggest spring water—and hydrate.”

Then he got to his feet and strolled over to the hamper. He grabbed a few MRE packs, a handful of cookies, and the fork before returning to the blanket made from their capes. Clark had moved to once side, avoiding the mess he’d made. Bruce tossed him an MRE and handed him the fork. “Eat,” he said. “I’ll deal with that.”

Expertly he pulled a small container of hydrogen peroxide from his utility belt, applied it to the semen stains, then wiped away the residue. He did this a couple of times before finishing up by dampening the area with wet wipes.

“How do you even know to do that?” Clark asked. Bruce had noticed him watching his movements with wide eyes.

Bruce shrugged. “Like bloodstains, semen stains are protein stains. Everyone in the family knows how to deal with bloodstains, or we’d keep Alfred in the laundry room all the livelong day.”

Clark shook his head. “And to think I used to just ask Ma to clean up my uniform.”

He smirked. “This isn’t a stain you would want to ask your mother to clean up, Superman.” He was rewarded when the Man of Steel choked on his food and blushed furiously, sputtering out protests.

By the time he was done, Clark had eaten his way through two MRE packs and was munching on a cookie. He handed Bruce one of the MREs and the fork, and Bruce dug in with gratitude.

“Y’know,” Clark observed as Bruce chewed, “you really are better prepared than a boy scout.”

“Hnn.”

He smiled impishly. Bruce blinked, feeling that he had to physically prevent his pupils from arching into heart shapes. “I wonder what else you keep in there. Or what else you _might_ keep in there, knowing that this—” he gestured toward their capes, still under them “—could happen when we’re on a mission.”

Bruce smirked. “Don’t think I won’t introduce you to the Bat Plug, boy.”

Clark choked on his cookie. “The Bat Plug?”

“You’ll see.” At Clark’s wide eyes, Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I’m not about to let that comment about your super sphincter go without exhaustive testing. So it’ll be a while before you get my cock in your ass again.”

Clark pouted. “But Bruuuuce—”

“No buts. I would rather not have my dick cut off just when I’ve found a use for it again.”

“What do you mean ‘found a use for it again’? Aren’t you Mr. Playboy Billionaire?”

“Aren’t you a reporter who should know better than to trust what you read in the tabloids?” Bruce merely pursed his lips at Superman’s frown. “What? You think I have the time to bed a new conquest every night? Are you forgetting what I _actually_ do with my nights? Not to mention all the times the Justice League calls me in, for all I’m supposed to be a part-time member?” Clark snorted at that one. “And the fact that I seem to have acquired half a football team’s worth of children?”

“That last bit is your own damn fault. I swear you collect children like some people collect art. Or stamps.”

“Pretty sure they’re just showing up at the Manor now,” Bruce said with a shrug. “Alfred probably has spare adoption papers in the cupboard or something.”

Clark stared at him. “You, Mr. Wayne, have a problem.”

“Children are never a problem,” Bruce corrected him with a frown. “Or, they’re the best kinds of problems to have.”

“Awww.” Clark gave him those heart-eyes. Bruce wondered how often he’d missed them, in the past.

“Come on,” Bruce said, finishing the last of his food, taking a swig from the Horn of Brân Galed, and getting up, putting all of the trash into a large evidence bag so he could toss it once they got out of Faerie. “Let’s see if we can’t get out of this damn cave and head back Overhill. We’ve spent enough time in Faerie, and don’t forget those legends that time moves differently here. We’ve been gone a day, but it could be several days, a month, or even a year and a day on the outside. Or it could have been just a few minutes.”

Clark gaped at him. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Bruce said, armoring up. He tried not to envy the ease with which Clark dressed, then simply pressed the badge with his family’s crest to his chest to have his uniform tesselate around him. He pulled the last of his armor on, then pulled on the cowl. Finally, he let Clark shake out their capes, accepting his own and clipping it in place. “Now,” he said, voice deepening into the habitual tones of the Bat. “Let’s go. The world has gone long enough without Superman.”

He strode over to the entrance of the cave, prepared to start moving the boulders away, when he noticed Clark hadn’t followed.

“I hope you know you’re the greatest hero I’ve had the privilege to meet, Batman,” Clark said, his voice rough with emotion. “Out of all the League…” He cleared his throat. “You’re the best of us.”

Awkward at the praise, Brue lifted a shoulder. “Pretty sure we’ve established that yours is a biased opinion.”

“I’m serious, Bruce.”

He snorted. “So am I. Besides, are you forgetting you’re Superman?”

With a growl of frustration, Clark strode forward, cape swishing behind him regally. Bruce had a moment to relish the memory of just what they’d been doing on that cape not half an hour before. Then his chin was being cupped in Clark’s soft hands, and though he had the lenses of the cowl down, he felt like those clear blue eyes saw straight into his soul.

“’I never looked at you without seeing the sweetness of the way the world goes together, or without sorrow for its spoiling,’” Clark intoned solemnly. “‘I became a hero to serve you, and all that is like you.’ Peter S. Beagle.”

Bruce gaped. Then he snickered. “You little shit. Did you just quote _The Last Unicorn_ at me?”

“Just because Prince Lír said it first doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.” The corners of the Man of Steel’s mouth quirked up. “I really identified with that book when I was younger.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Last of her kind, and all that jazz.”

Bruce laid a hand on Clark’s shoulder. “You’re not alone anymore,” he said. He promised.

Clark’s smile was pure sunshine. “I know.”

Bruce scanned his lover’s face and saw the acceptance there. The love. He nodded once, then turned his attention to the boulders blocking the entrance. “Now, come on. Let’s get the hell out of Faerie before we get chased down by some other rampaging unicorn or whatever the hell this forest is gonna throw at us.”

“It won’t be a unicorn,” Clark said confidently, helping to shift the rocks so they could make a passageway large enough to slip through.

“Oh?” Bruce said distractedly once they were outside, already trying to get his bearings so they could resume their route through the enchanted forest.

“Nope,” Clark said. “Or did you forget that you’ve popped this Pringle can?”

Bruce groaned. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Clark was grinning. “Shouldn’t I tell the world I’ve been deflowered by Gotham’s most eligible bachelor?”

“Jesus fucking Christ. On a fucking paddleboat.”

“Or—”

“_Be silent!_” At the ringing tones that seemed to reverberate in their heads and in the woods all around them like low bells, both heroes stopped in their tracks, then spun around to see the unicorn, pale and iridescent as it had originally appeared. “_Had I known you would bicker this way, I would not have chased you into the cave to shoot twixt wind and water!_”

Both heroes stared. And stared.

And then Clark began to snicker. “Shoot twixt wind and water?”

Bruce let out that rumbling sound that passed for amusement while he was in the cowl. “I suppose it could be said we made butter with your tail.”

“While you sheathed your meat dagger.”

“I did polish the porpoise.”

“And did the dipsy doodle,” Clark added with a giggle.

_“Enough!_” the unicorn thundered. “_The door out of Underhill is that way!”_ It gestured with its horn.

Immediately, Bruce sobered and inclined his head. “Direction is always appreciated when it speeds one’s journey,” he said, remembering it was a perilous idea to thank the Fae.

“_It better be_,” the Unicorn mumbled, or as much as a creature that belled its words into your head could mumble. “_Will you leave now, and never return Underhill?_”

“That is our intention,” Clark replied. “Although we have been waylaid more than once while on our journey now.”

“_Oh, bother_,” the Unicorn complained with a huff that sent its forelock flying upward. “_Very well. I will escort you to the door and see you safely through._”

“It is certain to hasten our departure,” Batman informed it.

And so the Man of Steel, the Dark Knight, and a unicorn traversed an enchanted wood to locate the door out of Underhill. Bruce and Superman deposited the hamper and horn inside the hollow of a large tree, as the Faerie queen had instructed them. Then they stepped through into the bright sunlight of Overhill.

Immediately, their comms came online, and the heroes were forced to inform their various colleagues that they had returned without injury. Still, the reassurance was not enough for some. The Flash came zipping in, a blur of red and gold as he hugged first Superman, and then Batman, before realizing he’d just thrown his arms around the Dark Knight, squeaking, and dashing away, babbled apologies fading in the wind behind him.

Supergirl flew toward them scant seconds later. After hugging her cousin enthusiastically and greeting Bruce with more reserve, she turned her attention to the door they had so recently exited, where the unicorn was still standing.

“Is that a _unicorn_?” Kara asked, voice rising an octave in delight. She may have squeaked at the end of it. She’d obviously inherited her cousin’s tendency to form heart-eyes.

“_Is that a _virgin_?_” the unicorn asked in exactly the same tone, with exactly the same expression. In fact, its eyes weren’t just shaped like hearts, they were actually turning red—

Oh no.

Oh _no_.

_Fuck_ no.

“Fare thee well, creature of wild and whimsy!” Batman yelled.

And promptly slammed the door to Underhill in the unicorn’s face.

**Author's Note:**

> “I think love is stronger than habits or circumstances. I think it is possible to keep yourself for someone for a long time and still remember why you were waiting when she comes at last.”  
― Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn
> 
> Also, may I present… [the “Bat plug.”](https://i.etsystatic.com/13065784/r/il/e1dadd/1084964970/il_794xN.1084964970_3nt5.jpg)


End file.
